"I have a man who suddenly appeared to me, and he claims to be an emissary from the gods. He would be meeting with us...." The emperor's voice, though regal, carried a reluctant weight, the kind that draped heavily on one who had recently looked death—or something worse—directly in the eye.
But before he could complete his sentence, a voice thundered from the commoners' section with raw contempt.
"You're a useless emperor and a liar! You don't deserve to lead—abdicate the throne and put Prince Balek instead!"
The words echoed across the massive colosseum, turning heads and silencing murmurs. The shock hadn't even sunk in when another voice rose, even more defiant and unforgiving.
"No! Put the Black Dragon on the throne—at least he cares for the common man!"
That broke the dam.
A storm of voices rose like a thousand angry waves crashing against the brittle shores of imperial authority. "Give the throne to Princess Zemira or Prince Jaden!" "Where's the honour in this kingdom?" "Bread not blood!" "Down with tyrants!" "We want justice, not death games!"
The emperor's guards stiffened. Their hands went to their blades, but the emperor subtly lifted one finger in caution. He couldn't afford blood. Not now. Not after what the Trickster God had warned. He stood still, motionless, as his throne seemed to shrink beneath him.
His face was like carved stone, but a war was playing out behind his eyes. If he gave the order to quell the unrest with force, he would surely lose what little favour remained with the common people. They were hungry, angry, and some had nothing left to lose. Their lives were already unbearable. Death was no threat—it was a release.
But if he allowed the defiance to persist without retribution, he would lose the initiative. Power—true power—was maintained not by compassion but by the illusion of control. And right now, the illusion was cracking.
His own family was no better. The princes and princesses sat aloof, disengaged, some folding their arms, others leaning back with veiled sneers. None of them rose to his defence. Their silence was not neutral—it was telling. It was betrayal wrapped in the excuse of royal detachment.
Among his wives, the scene was even more treacherous. A few empresses whispered excitedly amongst themselves, as if discussing a juicy court scandal. Their eyes sparkled—not with fear, but with anticipation.
Empress Vashti, the first and most senior of the emperor's eight empresses, leaned back with a cat-like smirk curling at the edge of her lips. She didn't often smile during court gatherings—partly because smiling too wide could loosen the pearls glued to her eyebrows—but today was a delightful exception.
Across the grand hall, draped in crimson robes and diamonds that could ransom a small nation, Empress Jemima, her long-time rival and the ever-ambitious second empress, caught her eye. There was a pause—a dramatic, theatrical kind of pause that would've made court jesters weep with joy. And then… they smiled. At each other.
For the first time in over a decade, since the Great Jewel Theft Scandal of the Imperial Courtyard—where Vashti had "accidentally" worn a necklace Jemima claimed was hers—the two empresses silently agreed on something: the emperor's humiliation was delicious.
Vashti elegantly lifted her wine goblet, as though to toast the chaos, while Jemima, not to be outdone, fluttered her fan twice and mouthed the words, "Finally, some entertainment."
The other six empresses watched with varying degrees of amusement, confusion, or sheer boredom. Empress Lois the 5th empress, and the mother of Prince Typh the 5th prince, and Princess Mahlah, the 3rd princess, was halfway through sketching the mob scene on her lap fan with a charcoal stick, Empress Persis the 4th empress, and the mother of Prince Rezbah, the 4th prince, and Princess Phebee, the second princess, was snoring into her sleeves (she had started a new herbal sleeping tea routine), and Empress Maachah, the 7th Empress, kept whispering to her handmaiden, "I told you the empire would fall during a weekday."
Meanwhile, in the background, the uproar from the crowd had reached operatic levels. People were waving their sandals in the air like victory flags, and some even pretended to faint from the excitement just to avoid the wrath of the guards. One man boldly held up a roasted yam and shouted, "This is my emperor now!"
And all the while, the emperor stood there, his mouth slightly ajar, unsure if he should laugh, cry, or simply dissolve into the marble floor. He had planned a dignified announcement, perhaps even imagined the crowd would erupt in gratitude—maybe even chant his name. Instead, they were chanting, "Balek! Jaden! Zemira! Black Dra-gon!" and even Empress Jemima joined in the clapping rhythmically, purely out of spite.
Two of the Emperor's most treasured concubines, Mel and Ariel, however, frowned deeply, their gazes protective and troubled as they looked at him, then toward the mob.
Only a few loyalists remained steadfast.
Adolph Li stood unmoved, arms behind his back, his face unreadable. He had predicted this. His sharp mind had drawn the threads days before. He had warned the emperor, subtly but firmly. That the people were no longer clay but stone, and stones thrown together could break a crown.
Meanwhile, Manuel Stunner, the Hand of the Emperor—ever calculating—chose not to act. He stayed in the background, deliberately looking away, not out of cowardice, but out of an instinct for political survival. The tide was turning, and Manuel would rather be seen as a bystander than a loyalist to a sinking ship.
The entire gathering teetered on the edge of chaos. Nobles whispered nervously. Commoners shouted louder. Guards tensed. One spark, just one sword drawn, and it would all erupt.
And above it all, the emperor stood, no longer a god on a throne, but a man trapped between wrath and ruin.
It was the worst moment of Emperor Groa Aratat's reign—humiliating, chaotic, the kind of moment historians would drool over for centuries. And yet, as he stood there, utterly defeated, somewhere between trying to reclaim his dignity and pretending he didn't hear a commoner comparing his crown to a shiny cooking pot, two people couldn't have been more thrilled. It was the happiest moment of Vashti and Jemima's lives.
Just as the raucous air reached a fever pitch—nobles pretending to faint dramatically, commoners tossing sandals like festive confetti, and one excited child trying to sell commemorative "Down with Groa!" buttons—a strange light pierced the sky.
Then, without warning, the atmosphere shifted.
At first, it appeared as a mere dot. A speck. A trick of the eyes, perhaps, like the ones you see after staring too long into the sun or after eating one too many of the palace chef's psychedelic mushrooms.
It expanded—slowly, steadily, like a bleeding ink blot in the canvas of the heavens. From a dot to a coin, from a coin to a disk, and then to something so massive and bright that shadows in the courtyard twisted and stretched like frightened animals.
Gradually, conversations died. The drums stopped. A wind swept through the imperial square, scattering wigs, turbans, and at least one official decree. Every head turned upward. Even the emperor's.
But he didn't look confused.
Only Emperor Groa Aratat knew what approached. His face, once contorted in anger and embarrassment, now shifted into something else—pale, rigid, lips parting ever so slightly as though about to whisper a forgotten prayer.
Because he knew.
This was not a foreign aircraft. Nor a magical beast summoned by a rogue wizard. Nor a diplomatic envoy from a rival empire.
This… was a god.
And not just any god.
V'Zaleth.
The Trickster God.
The Sky Mockery. The Chaos Between Thoughts. The Whisper in the Hall of Truths. The Ancient Liar.
The very name alone, once uttered, had turned entire cults into ash. His followers weren't known for devotion—they were known for vanishing cities, replacing infants with talking pumpkins, and convincing entire kingdoms to crown cows as monarchs.
And now he was back.
The growing light twisted, then shimmered, then cracked like a mirror—revealing the silhouette of a man-shaped thing… lounging.
Yes, lounging.
Upside down, sipping from a mug, and wearing a robe that appeared to be stitched together from stolen dreams and crocodile gossip.
Groa took a step back. His breath hitched.
Because where V'Zaleth walked, sanity rarely stayed behind.
And he had come.
In full view.
Before thousands.
Descending like a curtain call on the last act of a doomed reign.
And with him, came dread, laughter, and the certainty that whatever embarrassment Groa felt now… it was only the beginning.